The priest raised his hand.
"Due to the third son's lack of magic, Second Son Aerik Drenlor is restricted to Rank-1 spells only."
The crowd erupted in murmurs again.
"Yeah, this was unfair," one noble muttered from the stands, "but which foolish child challenges a magician without magic?"
The others nodded sagely, as if they too had always known how doomed Kaelion Drenlor was.
The high priest, unbothered, raised his hands solemnly.
"By decree of House Drenlor—no killing shall occur in this sacred duel."
He turned to the altar and offered a brief chant to War God Thalrik, invoking honor, battle, and ideally a bit of restraint.
Then came the signal:
"Begin."
Aerik snarled and slammed his palms together.
"Crimson Serpent!"
The spell roared to life.
Blood surged unnaturally from Aerik's palms, spiraling along the ground in a vicious, serpentine wave.
Magic twisted its shape—forming a coiling, snarling serpent, its fanged mouth wide with fury, its body glistening crimson in the sunlight.
Kael dodged swiftly, instincts sharp—but in his mind.
Right. I'm the victim here. Gotta sell it. Make them believe.
Divine intervention won't land unless I look utterly doomed.
The serpent missed by a hair—yet Kael threw himself back, rolling with the momentum, letting his blade skitter across the floor as if torn from his grip.
A blast of blood magic grazed his shoulder.
Not deep, but enough.
"Aaagh!" Kael screamed, louder than needed.
A spark of magic grazed his shoulder—just a lick, really.
But Kael screamed like it had severed a limb.
He dropped to one knee, clutched his arm, and let out another groan that could've summoned pity from a statue.
Blood began to seep through his shirt.
Not much, but enough for stagecraft.
He coughed theatrically, dust puffing up around him, eyes glassy as if moments from unconsciousness.
"Oh gods!" a woman in the crowd cried. "He's just a boy!"
"He's not even a mage!" another gasped, hands clasped in prayer.
Kael peered out from behind his tangled bangs.
Good. Excellent.
Aerik, meanwhile, puffed himself up like a rooster at a cockfight.
"Pathetic!" he barked. "Stay down, little brother, or I'll paint this arena red!"
Please do, Kael thought grimly, wobbling to his feet like a drunken poet at last call.
The more you strut, the better this all works.
He took one shaky step forward, then stumbled again, landing in the dirt with a grunt.
Face down. Motionless. Then, a slow, tortured rise.
Selene looked like she wanted to throw herself into the ring and strangle both of them—Kael for the drama, and Aerik for being himself.
Elara, on the other hand, sighed and shook her head slightly.
She saw right through it. 'He's being too dramatic…'
Kael coughed again, just for flavor.
Selene bit her lip, her face a mix of secondhand embarrassment and concern. But then she glanced at the crowd—and her breath caught.
They weren't laughing.
They were enthralled.
Gasps, murmurs, even teary-eyed nobles.
"A magicless son, fighting against all odds…"
"Still standing… he's brave."
"Maybe there's more to Kaelion than we thought…"
Even the priest of Thalrik looked stirred, gripping his staff tightly.
Kael lay there, breathing heavy, blood on his lip—eyes still burning with defiance.
The perfect image of a noble underdog on the edge.
And his trap was almost ready.
Aerik grit his teeth, veins twitching with magic and pride.
He was winning. Dominating.
The so-called "magicless third son" was bleeding, crawling, flailing like a worm in the dust.
And yet—why?
Why was the crowd cheering him?
"Why are you fools clapping for a cripple?" Aerik growled under his breath, crimson energy coiling at his palms, forming into the shape of his final spell—Blood Reaping Fang.
Kael, panting, shakily stood again.
His shirt was torn, soaked with blood and dust.
Hair in disarray.
The image of a fallen prince, noble even in ruin.
He glanced at the crowd—not with defiance, but with something deeper. Something that made even the jeering halt.
"I never wanted this," Kael began, voice hoarse but clear, each word coated with raw conviction—and an effortless smoothness that made the lie taste like truth.
Kael looked up—eyes sweeping across the crowd, the judge's dais, the rows of nobles.
The Duke sat stiffly in his wheeled chair, hands gripping the armrests. The Duchess, pale and still. Even they... were listening.
The crowd was breathless.
Kael took one step forward, blood trailing faintly down his arm. His voice rang out, cracked but unwavering.
"I was born magicless. So I should swallow injustice like it's a family meal."
A murmur of grief rippled through the common folk, eyes misting. Even the War God temple's zealots looked uncertain.
"I am not a liar," Kael said, each word a hammer.
"I am Kaelion Drenlor. And in the name of Thalrik, War God of flame and fury—I will never kneel to a lie!"
The crowd was silent for a heartbeat—just long enough for Kael's words to sink into marrow.
Then came the thunder.
"KAELION!"
"KAELION DRENLOR!"
Aerik snorted, disdain dripping from his voice.
"So what? I'm still going to win."
Suddenly, Kael's eyes fluttered shut, his face turning upward, lips trembling in reverence.
He lifted a trembling hand, palm open, as if reaching out to grasp unseen grace, as if receiving an apple straight from Jesus himself.
A slow, deliberate smile curled at his lips.
"By the will of Thalrik," Kael whispered, voice hushed but unwavering,
"I accept your blessing."
The theater of it all was so over the top, so painfully dramatic, that Elara and Selene both instinctively covered their faces—shame flooding their cheeks.
But Kael? Shameless as ever, he held the pose for a long beat, letting the silence stretch out like a drawn bowstring.
The crowd, utterly dumfounded, watched in stunned silence.
Aerik's eyes narrowed, his voice dry and confused,
"Have you gone .....insane?"
Kael's eyes snapped open — sharp, fierce, burning with sudden intensity.
No words. No grand chant. No flourish.
Just movement—fluid, deliberate, almost like something else guided his limbs.
Moonblade.
Not one. Not two. But five—launched in silence, cutting arcs of silver-blue across the air like divine judgment made manifest.
Aerik barely had time to blink.
The magic slammed into him with brutal precision. He staggered, eyes wide, then collapsed—unconscious before he even hit the ground.
Silence.
Kael stood, slow and composed, dusted off his coat with an exaggerated calm, then casually ran a hand through his hair under the stunned gaze of thousands.
He turned to the high priest, voice ringing with triumph:
"Hail Thalrik, god of war, for granting me the magic to defeat lies!"
The coliseum froze.
Even the wind held its breath.
Everyone knew Kaelion Drenlor was magicless.
That attack had been magic.
And yet… what else could explain it?
The mind rejected the impossible. But the heart, when shaken hard enough, clings to faith.
One priest dropped to his knees. Then another. Then the rest.
A chant began—low, awed, rising like a storm breaking through doubt.
"Hail Thalrik! Hail Thalrik!"
The crowd joined.
The roar swallowed logic.
Even the Duke, stone-faced, bowed his head.
Selene stood frozen.
Elara stared, lips parted—still stunned, but something in her eyes glittered with curiosity…
Kael, inwardly, exhaled.
It worked.